


Incrementum

by thebowlofsoup



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, MAAS Sarah J. - Works
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Redemption, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, adding tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:14:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29039229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebowlofsoup/pseuds/thebowlofsoup
Summary: Five years after the war on Hybern, the Fae realm of Prythian remains shrouded in mystery and darkness. Humans dare not cross the border, and folk tales of the Fae spread across the human lands in hushed whispers. Young Viasna is thrown into the unknown as she grapples with a power beyond her understanding. In the Fae realm, Tamlin struggles with the betrayal of his court and closest confidants. Together in a derelict manor, Viasna and Tamlin battle their inner monsters and uncover truths of the Fae.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s), Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. Running

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! I'm really excited to be posting the first chapter of my first ever ACOTAR fic for you all. I've been thinking a lot about the fandom discourse surrounding Tamlin and I'm firmly on the side of Tamlin-redemption. So I wanted to play around with that idea a little and thus the fic was born! I hope you all enjoy this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> I'm unsure how many chapters this will be but do keep in mind it's a slow burn so it'll be a big one! I've tried to emulate SJM's style as much as I can while also letting my own voice shine through. So with that in mind of course there is plenty of sexual tension and eventual fun times so stick with me on this journey!

Twigs scrape my bare feet as I run through the forest, my breaths puffing out in small clouds before me. My heart pounds beneath my shift, each inhalation of cold air like knives in my chest. But I can’t stop. I have to keep running. Behind me, I hear the distant sound of mummering men, their hunting dogs sniffing the ground with vigor, the light of their torches barely visible through the oncoming nightfall and thick tree line.

As I run clumsily through the forest, slipping on moist shrubbery, branches scrapping along my face, I hardly have the headspace to recount my last moments of freedom. Those last moments I spent with my mother, casting small protective enchantments over her dying form. Those last moments where my father sat in front of the fireplace, barely able to whisper a warning before the door was torn from its hinges, wood scattering around our modest living room, my arms seized and hands forcing me outside into the cold.

A stone pierces through my foot and a sharp cry of pain leaves my lips without warning. The low tones of the men suddenly stop, they grow still and silent as they assess where I am. But it isn’t the men that worry me. The smell of blood pervades the air, heavily enough even for my weakened senses to smell the iron. The men’s dogs know my exact location, and they don’t hesitate before charging towards me. What little distance I had managed to get between myself and the men is lessening by the second. I muster up the last of my strength and sprint, ignoring the fresh cuts on my face, my shift catching on low lying branches.

But still the men and their dogs chase after me with bounding leaps that cover the meagre distance between me and them. My vision begins to blur in the night, my lungs burning. I will collapse soon, I know this. Yet I can’t stop. The dogs are snapping at my heels and I make a sharp right, veering enough to the side to confuse them just momentarily. I begin sprinting anew, fresh air suddenly filling my lungs. My legs bound faster across the damp earth, my arms pumping furiously at my sides. It is this very distraction of fleeing for my life that prevents me from noticing the sudden, then just as quickly gone, shimmering in the air. The slight metallic taste that enters my mouth briefly.

I race across the flat ground, gaining speed with each long leap forwards, and the more distance I put between myself and the hounds, the lighter I feel. A weightlessness I’m unaccustomed to seems to push me forwards, guiding me. And I’m no longer just a girl from a village, but I embody light and air; using the elements to whisk me away from danger. Around me, night falls fully, and my human eyes can no longer distinguish tree from flower from grass, yet this doesn’t impede me. I can somehow smell the difference, hear how the trees sway heavily in the wind.

No longer hearing the hounds behind me, I begin to slow, taking in my surroundings with a clear head. In front of me lies two branches, slanted by heavy wind, creating a doorway between my hiding spot in the thick of the forest, and the clearing ahead. My breath catches in my throat at the sight. A most beautiful, luminescent lake lies ahead, glittering in the darkness, beckoning me forwards, almost begging me to jump forwards and immerse myself in its depths. But I refrain, still alert from the very real danger of the hounds and their men. Slowly, I inch towards the centre of the clearing, nearing the lake with slow, deliberate steps. I just want to look into the lake, take a much-needed drink, that’s all. Perhaps see if even in the darkness I can manage to look at my appearance, assess the damage on my face and legs.

The closer I get to the lake the more my hearing picks up the subtle sound of water below the surface. A quiet trickle and the faint, shimmering sound of what I can only describe as starlight. Closer I walk, needing to see the sight for myself, needing to touch the lake, place my whole arm in the smooth water and sooth my very soul with it. Crouching down low, I lower my fingers to the surface, taking no heed of my lack of reflection in the lake’s surface. The overwhelming need to touch consumes me. So much so that I don’t hear the crack of a branch ahead of me. Nor the twin of such a crunch behind me. It is only when the smell of blood, the sound of harsh, panting breath fills my senses do I look up. Directly into the eyes of a hound.

And it is then that I realize I’ve been herded into this magical space, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Ice fills my veins and I snatch my hand back from the lake, the twinkling stars within protesting with harsh squeals of dismay. With a sinking stomach, I stumble back up to my feet and run. I run, even though my body protests with every step, desperate to stop, to go back to the haunting lake and submerge itself.

No wind guides me this time, no preternatural feeling pushing me into one direction or the either, instead I charge forward with the blind faith that I might stumble upon a village, a pulled over horse and its rider, anything in which I can beg for shelter long enough to evade the men and their dogs.

_Please, please._

My mind begs. My breathing staggers, the taste of blood filling my mouth as exhaustion sweeps my form. I call out desperately, sending out my drained magic in a surge of tiny, insubstantial power. Begging anyone, _anything,_ to find me, save me. Protect me from the fate that surely awaits me should the men catch me.

But no one comes. My steps begin to falter, my legs shaking with every step. My arms hardly swing by my side now, and I’m no longer running. The rush of blood in my ears is a heady sensation, leaving me dizzy, dulling my already weakened senses.

My knees give out and I land flat on my palms in the freezing grass, the adrenaline leaving me and finally I feel the agony of sprinting through the forest catch up to me. My palms ache, surely I’ve bruised my arms from the impact. My knees are numb from the cold, but I can feel the twigs embedded in my legs, my shift doing little to protect me from the elements.

Deeper in the forest I hear the pounding feet of the hounds getting closer and closer.

Where else do I have to go. I have no fight left in me. No one to come rescue me like the damsel I feel myself to be. So I lie in the wet, curling my body in on itself for one last moment of warmth. My hands so numb from the cold I can pretend someone else clutches at my waist.

And I wait for the hounds to find me.


	2. The Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consider thursdays the chapter updating day!

I must be dreaming, for I hear the sound of distant whimpering. A crash. Feet pounding against the earth. And the earth-shattering roar of a beast which resonates in my very bones.

Then, nothing.

* * *

When I wake, it is to the sun shining directly in my face. The bright, yellow light warming my skin painfully. So I roll face first into damp grass to relieve the burn. Waking is a slow process, my mind wanting to stay in blissful sleep, to heal just a little longer, to let my mind rest and my body to recover. I have half a mind to stay exactly as I am and let myself wither away into the grass, let my body be consumed and damn everything else.

I move slowly to my hands and knees, careful not to jostle my aching muscles too much. When I’m on my knees, I place my hands in front of my face, seeing in full daylight the extent of the running from last night.

Last night.

Wildly, I swing my head around me, searching in the tree-line for the hounds who must have been biding their time. Not enjoying playing with me in my weakened state, waiting for me to believe they’d left me at last and pouncing on me just as their men caught up and hauled me back to the village.

Seconds, minutes pass and I don’t see or hear any hounds or men. I take slow, deep breaths to calm my rapidly beating heart, my hands loosen the tight fists they made at my side.

Feeling some semblance of safety, I let myself look around, trying to get my bearings on just how far I ran from my village. As the sun rises steadily, I can see the forest slowly coming to life. The flowers surrounding the meadow blooming in the morning light, birds chirp happily from the high branches of the trees. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, even my village in the heart of springtime couldn’t compare to the beauty that surrounds me. No patch of earth is left bare, no flower dying.

But I don’t know where I am. The position of the sun telling me only that I may have travelled north from my village, but even of that I cannot be certain. Perhaps I ran all the way to Salford, a staggering fifteen miles from my home. In which case, the best course of action would be then to find the village itself, and ask for help. The rest will follow, but for now, I must find a shelter, a bath and food.

With just the brief thought of food, my stomach clenches, reminding me that I didn’t take my evening meal with my family. Thinking of my family, my heart aches painfully in my chest. I know not what became of them after I was tossed into the snow, men surrounding me with torches, screaming for me to be burnt. I remember with vivid clarity the look on my father’s face, the anger, the desperation, the sadness. All the while my mother lay there, motionless in magical sleep.

Sadness overwhelms me, rendering me unable to move for what feels like hours. I clutch at my chest, trying to keep my heart in place, lest it fall out from rapid beating or the simple pain of leaving my family vulnerable. I try in vain to rationalize with myself. With one less mouth to feed, the more money my father can put towards finding a cure for my mother. The more time they can spend together in perhaps her last hours, without needing to consider me. The less burden I will place upon them as I remain unmarried. My mind spins with each thought, I can barely keep up with myself.

Harder, harder I clutch at my chest, the ache lessening, and I stuff my heart back in between my bones, layering it until it is covered in thick coils of muscle again.

Looking up from my bowed position, I see that in reality only a few minutes have passed by. Good. I mustn’t waste precious daylight. Legend toils together with reality in these woods, any manner of creature, Fae or Human could prowl these woods at night. I hardly survived a night against Human dogs, let alone the famed Fae wolves.

Onwards, then.

* * *

It’s easy to lose track of time in this seemingly endless expanse of greenery. Where last night the tall trees and high shrubbery felt oppressive, now they provide much needed shade from the high sun. Each vibrant flower blends into the next, the bright purples, pinks and blues blending together in a beautiful tapestry of colour. The smell in the air is like honeysuckle, rain and dirt; calming me so much that once the sun finds itself in the middle of the sky, all I want is to lie down in the plush grass and sleep for an eternity. Such warmth on my skin makes my brain hazy and forgetful, and for the first time I forget my family. My mother and father’s faces in my mind are like a view through a rain spotted window pane. Though I know that I should be finding my way to a village, I cannot discern for what reason. So I continue forwards, where the warm feeling blooms in my chest with each step and my eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

Underneath the canopy of a willow tree, I find a soft, dry patch of crass, and close my eyes.

* * *

I curse violently when I open my eyes.

The sky above me is vivid orange with sunset. How could I have been so _stupid?_ I’ve lost an afternoon’s worth of travel from sleeping; and though my body is grateful for the rest, my clear mind is reminded of the anguish on my father’s face as I was dragged out of our home. He would not want me to lie around awaiting death or endless sleep.

Pushing myself up, I spy a warn path in the grass, a clear indentation marking footsteps, both human and creature. The only indication I’ve had that others may be around, and where there are others, there is potential help. So clambering to my feet, I follow the path forwards.

Night descends quickly, along with it the cold and once again, I’m rendered near freezing in my shift, now entirely covered in mud and debris. What was once a spotless, white linen shift is now ruined. I nearly smile at the metaphor of it.

Though my body no longer aches quite as badly, my mind still reels, recounting every moment back in my village with precision. I had been leaning over my mother at the time, bright red light emanating from my hands. A protection gease, to ward off trickery from faeries. My father sat by the fire, ledgers in front of him, spectacles resting on the very bridge of his nose as he looked over our finances. It was peaceful; and with the ticking of a clock, suddenly it wasn’t.

I shudder, both from the cold and the memory of being grabbed by the village men. I pray for them, should I ever return to the village with my strength back.

Ahead, I can just make out the faint light of a torch. Relief makes my knees weak, and I hasten my pace just enough as to not jostle my muscles further. The torch glows brighter as I near it, and the closer I get, I’m able to make out the wall in rests upon. A cream stone wall, covered in vines as though nature were claiming the space back, a narrow wooden doorway just off the its centre. The torch rests above the door, illuminating a dirt path.

Basic human instinct drives me forwards, the potential warmth in the confines of the wall, perhaps some food, a bed to rest on. So I pay no mind when I open the door, hinges squeaking loudly, the wood panelling groaning, to anything but my hunger and fatigued body.

Inside, I find myself in small, darkened quarters. My eyes can barely make out the straw bed which rests on the far side of the wall, bed linens strewn about on the floor. Directly opposite lies a wash basin, knocked on its side, cracks running through the ceramic. No windows line the walls but the vines from outside reclaim this indoor space as well. On the floor, a splintered chair is toppled over, wood torn apart as though broken by bare hands, piece by piece. Through the debris and my squinted eyes, I can ascertain that this may have been a servant’s quarters, seemingly abandoned in haste.

Curious, I open the small armoire in the left corner. Inside, the clothes are pristine, untouched by time. I find the liveries of a maidservant; plain brown- or seemingly brown in the darkness- cotton fabric dress, overlayed by a white apron. And shoes. Blessed shoes. My feet ache at the very sight of the shoes, plain as they may be, they will provide excellent coverage for my ravaged feet. 

I take the dress and shoes, determined to find a bath or a stream before I change into clean clothing. Should I need to run again, at least that way the mud caked down my legs and arms won’t stiffen the fresh fabric; or so I tell myself. But though I am running for my life, I am still a woman, and one who desires to be clean.

I can just make out another doorway, leading out of the room. There must have been a door here previously, judging by the broken hinges. Scattered on the floor are wood remnants and I can just make out little carvings along some of them. Clearly whoever lived here previously, personalized their door with little etchings.

Leaning down, I take a closer look, endeared by whomever made such markings. Picking up a piece, I bring it closer to my face, attempting to see through the darkness. But what my eyes see makes me gasp, dropping the wood with a loud _thunk_ onto the floor. Heart racing, I take a moment to calm myself, stepping through the door and away from the room.

In my village there have always been whispers of the creatures that roam the woods at night. Though outlawed, villagers still speak in hushed tones of the dangers of Fae and the horrors that follow them. The infamous Beast that prowls the forest edge, just bordering on the human lands. Never attacking, only ever searching. For what, no one knows; for no one dares trick the Faerie into revealing its secrets. Each story of The Beast renders it different. Some say it is more wolf than humanoid, with large paws and teeth the size of men’s arms. Others say it resembles a deer, with antlers arching out of its skull like tree branches. I myself have never stumbled onto anything Faerie, forbidden by my parents to enter the woods or go searching even for the Little Folk. Though sometimes, without their knowledge, I find in my path little trinkets left for me. Interlaced bits of twine to make the doll version of myself; buttons sewn together in such a way to look like my home. I’ve kept everything given to me, knowing the Little Folk would find it terribly rude for me to simply leave the gifts.

As I walk away from the doorway, the etching runs clearly through my head. The animal face with its teeth bared, muzzle reared back in a snarl. The antlers protruding from its head. It seems that all the villagers were correct. This beast is neither man, nor wolf, nor deer. But a dangerous, horrible concoction of all three. I only hope that this home is fortified against such a beast.

Continuing down the dark, narrow hallway, I’m careful to take note of everything around me, searching for both other people and things I can take along with me. But the deeper into the house I go, a feeling of hopelessness begins to creep up on me. Though I find myself walking through a labyrinth of doors, hallways, studies and bedrooms, I never find one person. Not one.

Instead, I’m faced with the impression that this house, large as it is, is completely abandoned. Ravaged in some way that made all occupants flee. Each room is mess of splintered wood, once beautiful but now destroyed furniture, papers carelessly tossed on the floor. Lining the walls of the hallways, paintings have been shredded, leaving barely legible strips of painted canvas.

Lifting one such strip, I push it back into place, completing a picture of a family; a mother, father, and four sons, all strikingly blonde, tall and handsome. Dressed in finery, I can only assume this family is a part of the gentry. Though only a bailiff, my father dealt with all manner of man, gentry and peasant alike. Travelling as frequently as he did, I would often accompany him where possible. From our village, north to Salford, west to the famed village of Feyre the Cursed. Never have I seen such a family of striking beauty and elegance. I must have travelled farther than I initially thought. Maybe even all the way to Fossgarth, the village closest to the wall separating the Fae realm from our human realm. In which case, there is still hope of finding the village come daylight.

Moving on, I find myself facing a wide corridor, large double doors at the end. From within, the enticing scent of a fire beckons me forwards, the smell of food and warmth taking over my instincts of self-preservation entirely. Clutching the bronze knocker between both hands, I say a small prayer to the Gods that I don’t find anything nefarious behind these doors, and push them open.

Inside, a large fireplace occupies nearly the entire back wall, roaring with a large fire. In front sits a plush arm chair, the red colour faded with dust and time. Lining the sides of the room are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I’m sure once these shelves were filled with tomes, but now they are sadly bare. Only a few books in each shelf, weathered with age and falling apart in their covers.

Though these details hardly resonate when I spot the plate of food resting on a side table beside the armchair. I don’t even take a moment to consider _where_ the food may have appeared from, why it is half-eaten, why the fireplace burns at all, why the armchair is still vaguely warm from a body. I rush to the table, hardly taking a seat before shovelling the potatoes and meat in my face. Bland. But hot. Gloriously _hot._ The meat is cooked rare, the potatoes barely baked, still starchy in texture and flavour. No vegetables.

But being the first food I’ve consumed in forty-eight hours, my stomach welcomes each flavourless morsel, my stomach now rumbling as if to say, _finally._

Slowing my chewing, I lean back into the chair, letting my sore muscles shape themselves around the cushioned chair. I lift my dirty feet up to rest on the matching ottoman, sighing in relief as my weight is moved off my ankles. I bring the plate to rest on my chest, hardly needing to lift my head as I continue to eat, slower now that the harsh blade of hunger has subsided somewhat.

I contemplate my next move from the comfort of the chair. I could stay here for the evening, it would be shame after all to leave such a grand house, after trekking for so long through snow and dirt.

 _Yes, a real shame,_ I say to myself, sinking further into the cushions. I should rest properly, away from the harsh elements of the outdoors. Give my mind and body time to recuperate. A house as large as this should have a kitchen, hopefully in the haste at which its occupants fled, they left some food. I could find some way to light a stove, and actually fully cook the potatoes that I’m sure are around somewhere.

Yes. An excellent idea.

The groan of a floorboard stops my fork inches from my mouth. I swallow, gently placing the fork down to rest on the plate. Slowly, I shift enough that I can see past the sides of the chair, making sure to make as little noise as possible, lest I have disturbed some creature squatting in the shadows.

Finding the shadows clear, I return to my plate, bringing the fork back up to my mouth happily.

Engrossed in my food once again, I don’t heed the movement of a shadow in the dark corners of the bookshelves. Nor do I notice the near-silent steps the shadow makes on the floor. No, I don’t notice until a darkness is cast over my plate. Trembling, I look up, up, into the glowing eyes of a dark form, flinching with the harsh anger in its eyes, dropping my plate of food onto the chair.

No, it is only when the shadow looms over me, imposing and huge do I notice.

With a voice that chills me to my core the shadow growls,

“What are you doing here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr!](https://highladyofprythian.tumblr.com/)
> 
> and i've made a [fic playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5JiV1NKwOsXAOz8zXEbUDY?si=uLLC_46dTPC_t7WW77Gh-w)


	3. The Fae

Shaking in my chair, all I can do is stay silent as the figure in front of me stares me down, standing with the preternatural stillness capable of only by the Fae.

_Oh Gods._

I’ve been mistaken. This isn’t some abandoned manor house which once housed nobles. I have not merely travelled to Salford or Fossgarth. Somehow, in my adrenaline spiked body, I travelled the thirty miles across the wall, into the Fae realm.

 _Oh Gods,_ I repeat.

How is this even possible. The wall has long since been rebuilt after the War on Hybern; the end of which marked my eighteenth year. Five years on and humans rarely cross the border between realms, only the Children of the Blessed and their delusional followers dare travel the woods leading to the wall, singing nonsense that Feyre Cursebreaker will grant them immortality, immunity.

The stranger continues to stare down at me, clearly awaiting a response. But what can I say? If this shadow is indeed Fae, it will not care about the meagre plight of a human girl. Surely I will be tossed outside and fed to the wolves. Or worse, my mind ensnared, forced to do the bidding of this Fae, coveting the position so badly wanted by the Children of the Blessed.

Hardly a whisper escapes me before I realize- I’ve eaten Fae food. I dislodge my eyes from his burning gaze, and stare down at the plate scalding my thighs. _Stupid, foolish human_. Had I taken a moment to think, I may have recalled the pointed ears of the family in the portrait. May have guessed this house to be too lavishly furnished, too large for any member of the human gentry. With a sinking stomach my fate has been sealed before I even managed to bathe.

Looking back up to the stranger, I see that the Fae has stepped backward, illuminating its frame enough for my human eyes to see. And I see that he is not an it at all, with broad shoulders, a tapered waist, bulging arms and height enough to tower over me, even when I stand.

Still staring at his hulking body, I hear him once again, softer now but no less forceful.

“What are you doing here.”

Bringing my eyes up to his, I know I have no choice but to tell the truth. After all, the Fae can smell lies as easily as I can see the sun shining at midday.

“I got lost,” At this, he tilts his head, eyes trailing up and down my form, taking note of the dirty shift marring his seat.

“Lost.” he repeats. No doubt testing the word for lies on his immortal tongue. His eyes which bore into mine are the colour of the forest, a bright green flecked with gold, like rays of sunshine filtering through trees. The rest of him though, remains in shadow. The urge to see his whole face overwhelms me for a moment. I want to put a face to the deep baritone of his voice.

“Yes,” I whisper. Hoping somehow my quiet submission will allow him to set me free; see me as nothing more than a useless human. One unfit to serve and too skinny to eat; best sent back on her way.

He hums under his breath, stepping further from me. With a click of his fingers, a twin to the chair I sit on appears, and he sinks deep into it, kicking his feet up onto the ottoman my feet still rest upon. And suddenly I feel silly, inconsequential. This immortal sharing his space with me, larger than life, quite literally. My dirty feet next to his pristine leather boots.

I lean back into the chair, reclaiming my previous position and attempting to appear both nonchalant and acquiescent at the same time. If it is a game of cat and mouse he wishes, then I must play along to his whims- just enough to ensure my safety.

“You may continue eating.” Each word out of his mouth is a command.

And so the game begins.

“No, thank you.” I keep my eyes locked on his, assessing his every moment, just as he assesses me.

“It isn’t charmed. You may finish the meal. And then leave.” Faeries cannot lie, this is no secret. And yet. If he had ensnared my mind the moment the potatoes touched my lips he could just as easily glamour me into believing he speaks the truth. My head hurts just trying to keep up.

Truth is still the best way forward, “I cannot, even if I wished,”

“No, of course not.” And with another click of his fingers, the dirty plate disappears, a fresh one replacing it, full now, instead of half finished. My mouth hangs open at the display of magic. How can he summon objects so carelessly? With a casual flick of his wrist, he commands the very objects around him. Meanwhile, I can barely summon the right protective charms for my mother, charms which barely last the hour, requiring constant replenishing.

“You interrupted my evening meal, you realize.” Abject horror runs through me again. How many more times before I pass out from the sheer rate of my heart, I am unsure. His food. I ate the food off _his_ plate. And I’m still alive.

Blurting out before my mind can stop me, “You haven’t killed me.”

“No. I’m afraid eating is not sin enough to warrant that. Though if it is death you seek, you travelled across the right court.” At this, he frowns, finally tearing his gaze from mine, instead staring to my left, into the dark shadows of the corners.

All part of this game to trick me, to ensnare me further.

“Court?” I play along.

“Surely even a human as young as yourself is aware of the courts of the Prythian Fae realm,” he condescends.

“I- yes. But only vaguely. They are not spoken of in good company,” I snap my lips together, blushing furiously as my foot remains in my mouth. Perhaps I am not as good at playing Fae games as I thought.

He just laughs. Or so I think, a deep rumbling emanating from his chest occupies the space between us, his feet twitching in… mirth? He is so very difficult to read.

“Of course not. Then where, human, do you think you are?” Though I can’t see his lips, I can hear the smirk they form.

“I thought perhaps Fossgarth. Though I appear to be mistaken,” Submission. Feeling his gaze on me again, I look down at the approximation of his chest. Fae are so rarely spoken of in my village that I don’t even know the power of his hypnotic gaze. Could he take my mind from my body with a mere look?

“A little further, I’m afraid,” Surely he teases me. His casual pose is just another lure. Though he seems to be gaining more comfort with my presence, the lack of threat I feel from him is just a ruse. _Just a ruse_ I repeat, for my mind betrays me now, too; wanting to stay in the warmth of the flame, with this hot meal and this enigmatic stranger.

Picking up the fork once again I decide to eat. By now I’ve no doubt my mind has been trapped in his web, I can at least aim to serve him with a full stomach and strength returned to my fatigued body.

Between mouthfuls I ask, “Then where, may I ask, am I?” It is common knowledge amongst humans that there are seven Fae courts. Of their exact location though, no one can be sure. As forbidden as it is to speak of the Fae themselves, the courts are kept just as tight-lipped. Only older generations, those who bore witness to the horrors of the Fae long before the war know of their locations. Any map of Prythian now is simply divided in two, with the human realm bordering the wall, and the northern Fae territory labelled as ‘FAE’.

“The Spring court, human.”

Try as I might, I cannot keep my face stoic. The fork trembles, and I realize my whole arm is shaking along with it. My feet which rested lazily on the arm chair flex painfully, reminding me again that I’ve run into this Cursed Court somewhat willingly. To think I was contemplating staying here.

Of course, this stranger notices. I’m sure he can smell the sudden change in my mood, hear my heart rate stutter then begin a fresh tempo. He glares at me from where he sits, the intensity of his gaze scorching through me worse than the fire. He looks… pained. Angry. The force of which is directed at me.

“My earlier order still stands. Finish your food and leave.” His tone loses its teasing edge.

I swallow my mouthful, throat suddenly dry. If I’m to leave now, in the dead of night, where will I go? My frail body can’t take another night in the cold. I could potentially pretend to leave, then come back to the servant’s quarters. Quiet as a mouse, just for some place to rest tonight. Then I can journey onwards. But my eyes stray to the fire. There would be no way for me to stay in the servant’s room without arousing the Fae’s keen senses, he would detect me in a heartbeat. And I’ve so enjoyed reclining in this chair, the very thought of standing to my feet makes me shudder.

I muster up my courage, perhaps this Fae can offer me a quicker death than slowly freezing, and bring my eyes up from his chest into his, “I’ve nowhere to go, sir. At least not while it’s so dark outside,”

He turns to the windows either side of the fireplace, gazing into that all-encompassing darkness for a beat.

“You may stay here for the night. You will leave the moment the sun rises.” Though his face is turned away, the sharp command in his voice is clear. Of course, this time I’m willing to oblige, I’ve no desire to spend another moment in this Fae’s presence any more than he does mine.

So I continue to eat, the fork clinking against the plate the only sound to be heard. The Fae continues to stare at the window, not even giving me a passing glance. I may take my time eating, just to torture him further.

As soon as my fork hits the plate indicating that I’ve finished the meal, the Fae is out of his char, ushering me upwards with a pointed look and walking briskly through the double doors. Placing my plate aside, I stand to my feet, swaying slightly as blood rushes to my head. I hadn’t realized until standing but I can feel exhaustion creeping up on me, like a dark cloud consuming my senses.

Following after him, I still don’t get a chance to see his face. I’m met only with his broad back and the corded muscles I’m sure he possesses concealed by fine clothing. As we walk through corridor after corridor, I have the faint notion that his clothes drastically juxtapose that of his house. Derelict and damaged against properly pressed and embroidered silk. His strides are long and I can barely keep up with his pace, no doubt he’s attempting to evade me enough that I just give up and flee into the night.

It won’t work.

If these past two nights have proven anything, it’s that through sheer force of will I can survive, even if I’m deliriously on the brink of death. I won’t let some crude, demanding, utterly male _thing-_

“Here.” He says it so harshly I’m near convinced he heard my every thought. He gestures with both arms to a set of ornate, white double doors. Gold trims the door’s edges, like leaves sprouting from a branch. The intricate gold detailing of the door is another jarring juxtaposition against the rest of the manor. Just behind me, in fact, a painting has been ripped from the wall, the canvas so shredded I can barely make out a fox in the woods. The swirls of colour blend together in an almost exact replica of the woods I stumbled my way through earlier today.

The Fae pushes the doors open, herding me into the bedroom, still without looking my way.

I turn, self-preservation my only motivation to utter a quiet _thank you_ but the doors are slammed in my face, the Fae disappearing behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr!](https://highladyofprythian.tumblr.com/)


	4. Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy ACOSF release!

Ravaged, destroyed. The doors leading into this room are as misleading at the Fae’s clothes. I thought perhaps this room had been spared in whatever savagery ripped the manor apart but inside, the room has been torn apart by a chaotic hurricane of greens, reds and burnt oranges.

The canopy along the far wall has collapsed, suffocating the large bed beneath it. The thick green curtains in utter shreds, as though some giant animal scraped its claws straight down. Much of the upholstery is the same, ruined with claw marks and indentations of massive teeth.

Carefully, I step my way through the debris to a clear spot just in front of the fireplace which faces directly opposite the bed. Much like the doors, the fireplace is ornately decorated with gold, though it is dull in the darkness of the room and clearly aged. Sighing, I stretch down, shifting cushions and blankets to create a makeshift bed.

Well, it’s certainly better than the forest floor.

I so badly want to go exploring in this room, I can see several doors leading out, perhaps into a bathing room or a dressing room. But the task of bending to retrieve my blankets and cushions has left me bone weary. Ungracefully, I collapse down into the bed, shimmying out of my shift and deciding to sleep in the nude. Fae’s sensibilities are not nearly as delicate as humans’ and if the Fae catches me naked, then so be it. I’ve so little to lose at this point, what is a little bit of bare thigh.

Settling into the soft fur blankets, I sigh again as the comfort overwhelms me. The blankets though old and warn are soft against my burnt skin and quickly, I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

It’s the gentle sound of birds chirping outside my window that pull me from sleep. Overnight my body has tangled itself up in the blankets, leaving half my upper thigh exposed while the rest of me is constricted within. I don’t have it in me to mind, comfortable as I am. I take a few moments to stare at the high ceiling above me, now an eggshell white in the daylight. The large windows that line the left side of the room pull in the bright sunlight from outside, no curtains obscuring the light’s path.

I stretch my arms upwards, feeling my muscles protest at the movement. With a good night’s sleep my body has come out of its shock and is now certainly punishing me. Sighing, I push myself up, the blanket falling to my lap and revealing my bare skin to the fresh morning air. Not as cold as night, but not warm by any means.

I run my hand through my hair, catching on tangles as I do. I probably look a fright, sitting her nude with hair like a bird’s nest, unbathed, skin red and raw from the sun, scraped and bruised beyond recognition.

Perhaps I am grateful to the Fae for letting me stay here after all, considering how I likely look, I muse to myself.

_The Fae._

Oh, no. My head snaps to the window, glaring at the sun I can clearly see through the tree line, as though it has slighted me. And in this instance, it has. Normally I wake with the sun, as does the rest of my village. But this time… this time I didn’t. But the Fae never gave an explicit threat… and he hasn’t come into these rooms to check on me. For all he knows I’ve left. The thoughts run quickly, and with each my anxiety lessens. Yes, this will be fine.

My bones crack as I stand, and I stretch upwards again, sighing as my stiff muscles loosen just slightly, the cool air feeling wonderful against my burnt, scratched skin.

I hum quietly, stepping away from my little nest of blankets, determined to explore the room, if not the rest of the manor, before beginning the arduous journey back across the wall; a thought I suppress as best I can. The longer I think about going through what I’ve already accomplished will only weaken my resolve. So instead of ruminating on that, I wonder around the large room I’ve been placed in. Last night provided me with a good layout of the room but in the daylight, I can see clearly the feathers spilling out of torn furniture, the mattress torn with jagged claw marks, loose book pages ripped.

And just like last night, that same sense of burning curiosity washes through me.

Who lived here. Why did they leave. Unanswerable question after answerable question.

Heading towards a closed door beside the windows, I gleam that whomever lived here previously may have been a scholar of sorts, judging by the sheer number of tomes that have been ripped apart. Handwritten notes scatter the only piece of whole furniture, a beautiful desk of dark oak; a stark contrast against the rest of the room’s lighter furnishings.

Behind the door I find a bathing room, a large claw footed porcelain bathing tub taking up most of the small room’s space. An intricately decorated vanity rests against the wall, bathing tonics, a hair brush, and towels resting upon it, welcoming me almost into the space.

 _Odd,_ I think to myself. It’s as though whatever storm ran through the bedroom left the bathing room untouched. No matter, the tub is miraculously full of water, cold as it may be, and the very sight of the tonics nearly makes me weep. My naked body settles gratefully into the tub, finding myself enjoying the cold water against my tortured skin. The bathing tonic smells of roses and is gentle against my skin, and I use the entire bottle washing the dirt and grime off me.

I wet my hair before even thinking about detangling, my thick tresses would likely split the brush in half if I tried any other way. So I sit here in the tub, immune to the chill now, brushing through my hair, contented to sit here as long as I require, because _surely_ the Fae assumes I’ve left by now.

Brushing gently through my hair, I consider my next move. I’ll explore the grounds as best I can, making sure to avoid the Fae and taking what I need as I go, positive my demure act fooled the Fae into believing me to be a thoughtless human. I’ve no reservations about taking from this derelict manor either, Fae are notorious tricksters, taking from him will likely help home atone for his many sins, I’m sure.

I step from the tub, drying myself quickly on the rough towel left on the vanity and donning the dress and shoes I found last night. Both too big and too small at once. The shoes squeeze my toes together, but they’re still better than being barefoot; and the dress is too long for my short frame, billowing out at my chest. Nonetheless, the dress is clean and soft and the sturdy layers of servant’s clothing will better protect me from the harshness of the forest.

Thinking like this, in practicalities, clears my head. Keeps me sane, if only a little bit. But with each deep breath I take I can feel the desperation to return home clawing at me.

Turning back to the bedroom, I find a mirror concealed on the back of the bathroom door. And as I gaze into my own brown eyes, all I can see are my parents. My father’s auburn hair, my mother’s freckles and soft jaw. I look so long in the mirror that I hardly recognize myself as one person, and I swear I can see my heart beating out of my chest with the pain. It hurts. God, it hurts. I think about their last moments with me, my mother’s eyes closed in dream-sleep and my father’s anguished cries.

And the longer I look at myself, the pinked bits of white skin, the glazed, angry eyes, the clenched fists, I forget that I’m mortal. Just a human. I look at myself and all I see is _other;_ the _thing_ that was chased away from her own home, who could have been torn apart by men who don’t understand- and will never understand. I reach my fist back, punching through the mirror just to stop looking at myself, to stop looking into the eyes of an abandoned woman, no better than a child in a man’s world.

In a daze, I look at my bloodied fist, shards of glass imbedded deep into my skin but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all, and the skin is healing. Slowly, the skin is knitting back together only to be torn apart again by the glass.

Stumbling backwards, I crash into a hard chest, large hands coming to rest on my hips to steady me.

I whip around, slamming my fist into the chest, glass pressing deeper into my skin, but at least the stranger grunts in pain. And I run. I sprint from the bathing room, into the bedroom, nearly tripping over blankets as I go. But I’m possessed again, just as I was when I ran from the hounds, and I’m quick. I run through the open door into the hallway, sharply turning left.

Only to have hands grip my hips again, halting me in my tracks. I wiggle in the embrace, blind determination making me claw at the thick forearms wrapped around my middle, kicking my feet backwards.

“Stop. Struggling.” The voice behind me grunts.

I do no such thing.

Using my nails, I scratch down the forearms, drawing blood as I go. Whatever is behind me hisses, dropping me onto the floor with a hard _thud._ My knees crack at the impact, but I’m crawling away. The creature’s foot steps down on the back of my knees, pushing me into the floor and effortlessly flipping me onto my back. 

Panting, I glare up at my captor. When my eyes meet his, the breath is stolen from my lungs anew. In the daylight, I can see his preternaturally beautiful features. Golden hair which matches the gold in his fierce green eyes, aquiline nose and sharp jawline, abnormally pointed ears. He matches my glare, barely even winded.

 _Fae bastard._ The thought comes unbidden to my mind. But it’s true. The cuts on his arms are already healed, the blood on his skin the only indication that anything happened at all. And in this moment, I hate him. I hate how he so effortlessly heals himself; how he didn’t even appear to struggle with my weight; how he towers above me surely contemplating the different ways he can make my death hurt the most.

“Dammit, stay _still._ ” He orders. I do, this time. Leaning up on my elbows, breathing hard, I continue to stare him down, waiting for him to continue. His nostrils flare and his eyes flicker to my fists, wincing slightly and I realize he’s scenting me, smelling the blood. I hope it burns his nose. I keep my eyes on him, imitating his stillness, refusing to be the first to move.

“You hurt yourself.” At this, I scoff. I can feel the tissues on my fist healing and breaking again and again but I choose to ignore it.

“Yes.” I hiss the words through my teeth, pretending to wince in pain at the last minute lest he assume I’m being difficult. I want to yell, swear and scream my anger and frustration at him, but I refrain. Breathing deeply, I close my eyes knowing if I look at him a moment more, I won’t be able to restrain the poison on my tongue.

“Let me see,” he nods his head at my hands, holding his own out towards me. I only stare at them, afraid suddenly that this is all another glamour, a ruse where if I accept his help, I’ll be eternally trapped in this manor, forced into servitude. The legend is as old as the Fae themselves. Faeries don’t grant favours out of goodwill nor without the promise of payback. And as he stares, patience clearing wearing thin, the Fae in front of me with the golden hair and haunting eyes paints a compelling picture. So badly I want to interlace my fingers with his, accept what he offers and be dammed. But I can’t.

So all I do is stare at his hand.

He huffs an annoyed breath before leaning down, placing his arms behind my back and knees, lifting me non-too-gently and striding back to the bed room. Surely this is a glamour, some sort of magic to make me believe his kindness because despite him jostling me with every step my body betrays me, relaxing into his arms of warm steel. My body is so small, so fragile compared to him and I’m dizzy with the sensation of someone holding me.

His hands flex rhythmically against my thigh and rib cage, fingers refusing to touch me even through the thick cotton of the dress, instead using his biceps and forearms to bare my weight. I can feel his hands trembling slightly, no doubt from the undiluted hatred he has of my kind coursing through him; the horror of touching a human body. So I sink deeper into his arms, shifting myself just slightly towards his hands, paying him no mind, for all he knows I’ve winced in pain.

Depositing me on the bed, he makes quick work of gripping my hands in his, bringing them closer to his face for inspection. Like everything, his hands dwarf mine in comparison. Though not peasants, my family are far from nobility, made blatantly obvious by the callouses on my palms; but even still, his hands make mine look delicate. 

I feel the skin tear open again from him moving my palm, and this time I do hiss aloud, flinching away from him. The firm grip he has on my hand prevents it from moving, but even my arm jerking away from him agitates the glass pressing against my skin. He frowns at me, concern shining through his eyes. _Very convincing,_ I think to myself.

“Did you… fall into the mirror?” He asks gently, but I can hear faint amusement in his tone.

Bristling, I reply, “Yes.” The word coming out more like a growl.

“A very precise fall then,” He prompts. I stay quiet. “Into the very centre of the mirror.”

And though the rest of the manor is damaged and broken, maybe the mirror in the pristine bathroom held some sentimental value to the Fae. Perhaps it was a misstep on my part, and he’s easing me into the torture he intends. So I respond in kind, softening my tone, “I’m sorry if the mirror was of value. I’ve no way to repay you for it but-“

He stops me before I can foolishly somehow bargain away my life, “The mirror is of no consequence. What doesn’t make sense is how it broke at all.” My hand is warm from being held firmly in his grip for so long.

“I may have… hit it.”

His eyebrows rise at this. “Hit it?”

I sigh, “Punched it.”

This time I really do see his lips twitch. “Did it offend you in some way?”

The torrent of emotions begins to swell in me again, burning me from the inside out. My mother, helpless in sleep, my father confused and angry; fleeing without a chance to say goodbye. It’s overwhelming me again and my skin burns with every thought, I feel hot to my very soul, fire burning through my veins.

“I just- I…” I’m shaking. My hands once steady in his grip now trembling, my whole body is vibrating, matching the quick beat of my heart and I feel as though I’m about to explode.

The Fae drops my hand as if scalded and a cool breeze washes against me, like a tide crashing against the shore. I breathe to the rhythm the wind creates, inhaling in the cool air and exhaling when it washes away. And slowly, the fire in me is snuffed out, leaving me shaking on the bed.

I look helplessly up at the Fae who towers above me. There are no placations on my tongue, I’m hardly even aware of what came over me. So similar to the mirror yet so much worse to be afraid of one’s self.

“What was that?” He asks gently, voicing soothing over me like a balm.

Weakly I reply, “I don’t- I don’t know.”

His gaze is assessing, and in his eyes I can see deep rooted pain. For me or himself I’m unsure but I’m entrapped in this staring contest with no desire to look away. The green in his eyes captures me so wholly that I’m convinced the Spring Court is where I’ll remain for the rest of my life; though right now I hardly have it in me to mind.

Sighing, he breaks his gaze away from me and picks my hands up again, returning to his inspection.

He picks out each piece of glass, wincing with every hiss of pain from my lips. He simply waves the glass away, and though I want to look onto the ground to see the growing pile, I know if I were to look I would be met only with the threadbare rug beneath the bed. His silence pulses through me, and my head throbs. Is he disgusted with me? So _human;_ so easily swayed by fits of emotion?

With a slow wave of his hand over mine, a soft glow emanating from his palm, my skin fuses back together effortlessly, staying together this time.

He doesn’t drop my hand like I expect.

Instead, he pauses. Breathes deeply and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Why did you hit the mirror?” His eyes are still closed.

“Because…I didn’t like what I saw.” I swallow the dryness in my mouth, barely able to wrap my lips around the sounds. But… I want to tell this Fae. His silence, his pain, I can nearly feel it as acutely as I can feel my own and I want him to know. In this fragile moment, I feel like he could understand me like no one else. Understand that I’m still reeling, terrified of what I saw, and what I could be.

“Is that why you ran?” He opens his eyes, nearly pleading with me for honesty. And with that look, the folk tales and legends of Fae escape my mind and I’m consumed with the desire to be heard and seen.

I whisper, “Yes.”

He makes no comment, just keeps looking at me as though memorizing me; my brown eyes, freckled nose, round face and full lips. No one has ever looked at me quite like this, not the village boys who I invite to my bed for a short tussle in the sheets nor the men parading around my family’s living room asking for my hand.

Though I don’t think I’ve ever quite looked at someone like this before, either.

I ask, “What’s your name?” For if I’m to leave this place, I want to know the name of my captor, the Fae who shut me out and healed my wounds in the same breath.

The moment shatters like glass. His eyes which were like tree tops on a warm Spring day, turn glacial. The Fae darts his eyes up at the canopy in the ruined room, the cushions, the torn pages, the broken furniture, withdrawing in on himself with every look. Every part of this room seems to rip through him.

A sharp pain against my healed hands forces my attention to them, and I see claws where once his hands lay gently against mine. Nails dig sharply into my skin, not drawing blood but pushing in with a firmness that steals my breath. With a panicked glance up at the Fae, I see the horror wash throw him before he withdraws the claws.

“You don’t want to know, human.”

With a swiftness my human eyes can barely keep up with, he flees the room and I sit on the bed, dumbstruck. Looking down at my hands I can see that even the faint indentation from his claws has already begun to heal, leaving only a pink trace.

Just like last night, his mood has shifted so quickly, too quickly. I can still feel his lingering warmth on my hands, see the gentle understanding in his eyes. But I’m angry. Angry that this Fae continues to toss me aside, keeping me here, forcing me to leave with seemingly no end in sight.

So I chase after him, my instincts guiding my through the labyrinth of doorways. Sheer frustration propels me forwards after him, something tugging at me, pushing me through door after door in this decrepit manor.

I’m guided back to the library, embers in the overlarge fireplace cold, no lingering warmth of the night before, no trace of the food I left behind. What I meet instead stops me dead in my tracks, frozen in utter terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr!](https://highladyofprythian.tumblr.com/)
> 
> fic [playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5JiV1NKwOsXAOz8zXEbUDY?si=C7u_B4uiRvml3AJsEBJsBA)


	5. Tamlin

I’m caught in the green-eyed gaze of a monster, a terrible conglomeration of my worst nightmares. Antlers as thick and long as human arms rest atop a wolfs head, a muscular bear-like body contorting as shadows dance in the dark corners of the room.

Eyes of the Fae.

And this beast… this beast is so achingly familiar to me. Like a demon sprung straight from the whispers of townsfolk. The very monster who haunts the wall between the Fae and human realms, ever searching. Ever lost. The Beast of Spring.

My muscles are frozen yet my legs ache with the tremendous effort to keep them still, the instinct to run screaming through me. But I cannot outrun this beast with paws as large as my face, muscles hulking from its lithe form. No, I would be torn to ribbons before I could even muster a step in the other direction. So I keep eye contact, barely daring to breathe.

And the monster just stares right back at me, form shaking ever so slightly. Those green eyes… eyes which pleaded with me to bare my soul, for honest truths. Eyes which turned from warm to glacial, which entrapped my very soul with a mere look. Those eyes plead once again, but for what I can’t be sure. But there’s no mistaking the acute pain in them. Eyes that are so human to me, so _real._

I’m caught between two equally strong instincts, to flee and to comfort. Part of me, certainly the larger side, wants to run. Forget this terrible nightmare and run back into my father’s embrace. And another wants me to rest my hands upon the thick fur of The Beast, stroke comfortingly and bring the Fae back from whatever depths he’s sunk into. This desire frightens me nearly as much as the very beast in front of me.

So, I drop to my knees, eyes finding the floor in submission, as I would any feral beast. Awaiting death or mercy.

I hear paws padding across the hardwood flooring before The Beast stops directly in front of me. Tensing, I ready my body for the sensation of limbs tearing, skin shredding and bones shattered. 

But instead, The Beast falls down onto his front legs, his head resting just in front of my knees. And he looks up at me, with centuries of pain and sadness and I can’t stop my hand from reaching out, from smoothing across the wolf’s brow. As my hand makes gentle swipes across the soft fur on his head, The Beast _purrs,_ eyes closing in contentment, and I know I will get answers to the questions I seek.

“Is this why your manor is ruined?” I’m in no frame of mind to ask the questions delicately.

He just nods his head, a faint whine rising from his throat; and in that sound alone, I can hear the answer as though he’s used his words. _Yes,_ he seems to say, _and I regret every moment._

More gently this time I ask, “Tell me who you are.” I grip the fur a little tighter, urging his eyes to look into mine. His great head shakes, eyes remaining closed. So clearly a _no,_ but I don’t give up. Though histories of individual Fae are vague at best, some of the most notable, the greatest and most horrible are named in stories, legends of old. Feyre The Cursed mortal who crossed the border and lost her soul; the sisters who followed only to be destroyed by the Cauldron; the very Beast who rests in front of me, who stalks the border of Fae and human endlessly. But even still, surely, _surely,_ I’ve heard of this Fae in his other form. A war general fallen from grace, or a simple lower Fae with a reputation above his station.

But I need to know, lest my journey here be in vain. A lone, mortal girl who managed to travel the border only to never know the name of the Fae whose manor she resided. To have her wounds healed by a High Fae in a crumbling relict of the past.

“Tell me,” I demand of him now, hand gripping his fur tightly. He whines before getting up to his feet and padding over to the destroyed bookshelves, snout rummaging through the torn pages and finding an undamaged tome and shuffling it over with his nose. He stops in front of me again, letting out a sigh of relent and looks pointedly at the book. Though a tense moment, I have to restrain my laughter at the indignation on The Beast’s face. So human and ridiculous on his magical body.

He drops to his stomach again, head resting on his front paws, watching me warily.

Thick, intricately decorated leather binds the heavy tome together, the pages edged in gold. This book may be the only object in the manor that remains in good condition, the leather is supple under my fingers, the delicate gold patterning gleams in the muffled sunlight. No title, but instead a rendering of an ancient oak tree, all manner of woodland creatures created in the twining branches.

I flip to the first page, expecting to find words, a biography of his life perhaps. But instead, an intricately woven map of lines, dates and names and small portraits greets me, densely packed together, lines intercepting in areas, creating a clear path downwards and across the span of pages. And as I quickly flip through the rest of the book, I realize this is no ordinary book, but a family history. A literal family tree. I turn back to the first page, looking at the very first couple and just like the night before, I feel horribly young and inconsequential. King and Queen Fae look up at me from the book, their death dating back nearly ten thousand years. A King and Queen of Spring. With a shaking hand, I trace the King’s aquiline nose, then the Queen’s green eyes. I look down into those same eyes. The Beast inclines his head as if to say _go on._

So I turn to the very last page. And there, at the bottom I see a portrait of the Fae I saw only this morning. Blonde hair, green eyed and beautiful. I almost don’t want to look further, though desperate to know who the Fae is, I fear knowing it will shatter the glass cage we’ve found ourselves in. Like knowing him, knowing his story will ruin this delicate balance of anonymity we’ve created.

But curiosity burns through me. First, his age. I do laugh out loud a this. Nearly _five hundred_ years old. To think only months ago I felt wizened by my twenty-three. And below, his name.

Tamlin.

This time I do not look up at the Fae, but I can feel his ears prick up, fur standing on end at my discovery. I just sit, tracing his portrait with my finger, mind whirring.

I remember the stories of the Cursed Court. The one that spat out Feyre, leaving behind a husk of a High Lord in a ruined manor. The same High Lord who fought with Hybern, against his own people. If I thought I felt terror before, the feeling that overwhelms me now is just ice. Pure ice runs through my veins and I’m frozen, only my finger left tracing the portrait back and forth feigning my nonchalance. But I’ve no doubt Tamlin can hear my heart beating in my chest, scent the perspiration on my skin, sense that I’m about to flee.

My legs tingle in anticipation of my sprint out of the manor. I rush up to my knees, tearing my hand from the book and resting them on my thighs, ready to run, no longer able to rationalize with myself. But I make the mistake of looking at him before I leave. Seeing his body still lowered to the ground, and with height over him now I recognize the pose as one of submission. His eyes burn in agony, a pain so acute it isn’t even human, purely Fae. But he doesn’t move, just remains looking at me from the ground. And when I push up to stand fully, he barely flinches, just sinks further into the floor.

I turn my back to him, determined to leave. To go home like I’ve been aching to do for so long now. Prepared to run back to my room, gather what I can and then find a human village. Practicals. A plan forms roughly in my mind, if I go now I could be across the wall by nightfall. I could be in Fossgarth, resting amongst humans.

I hear a light scraping sound, and I turn to see Tamlin using his snout once again to push the book back into the shadows. His body is curved inwards, like he’s trying to retreat from himself and it makes my heart ache just watching this terrifying Beast be reduced to such pity.

Without volition, I step towards him, picking up the book from the floor and placing it properly on one of the many shelves. I keep my back turned to the Beast, hand placed upon the book that sits now in a sunlit shelf.

“You are known even amongst humans, Tamlin,”

His whole body shudders at the sound of his name from my lips. Disgusted, perhaps, or just in pain.

“Had I known I ran into the Cursed Court I may have tried to run into another,” these words keep pouring from me, no longer able to bite back the lashings of my tongue. This Beast, though pitiful now, is a most feared High Lord, one so renown he has been woven into our human stories.

Tamlin the High Lord who fell from grace for entrapping a human woman so terribly she was forced to sell her soul.

Tamlin the High Lord of a Cursed Court, the earth salted so none shall grow there again.

Tamlin the Fae who sided against his own people in the battle against Hybern.

And even amongst those truths and lies, one point remains; this High Lord is a shadow of what he once was, forced to reside in a manor destroyed by his own hand. The fear I had of this Fae dissipates with the truth of his identity. No, I’m no longer afraid. But angry. Angry that just like Feyre I’ve found myself trapped here. Still reeling from the fear I had of myself today, that I can relate, even just a little, to this fallen High Lord.

I whirl around to face him, his hackles are raised, fur standing on end as he matches my stare. But there’s no heat behind those eyes, only a deep resignation.

“So what? You were going to trap me here? Ensnare me with your food and healing charms? Is your court truly so lonely?” I continue to lash at him.

There’s no satisfaction in it, for he doesn’t move. Hardly even blinks, only continues to look at me with those green eyes, his body raised in a defence position but not daring to shift back.

“Well?” I’m near screaming now, the rage and frustration pouring out of me. I want him to fight back. I want him to stop looking so defeated and desolate. I want him to look like the High Lord that he is.

“I see. One mortal girl was enough to ruin everything? Then you’re pathetic, truly. The stories are all correct I presume. The High Lord contained to his manor, sulking and-“

“Enough!”

Suddenly I have to shift my head upwards to meet the gaze of the Fae, his body towering over mine.

“You know nothing, _human,_ ” he spits. “Don’t forget, you were the one to come running into this house. If it weren’t for me you would be long dead-“

I laugh. “Are you truly so arrogant? Does your immortal heart beat a fever pitch at the thought of a weak, trembling human so much?”

“The mirror-“

“The mirror was nothing!” With just saying the words I can feel my hands throb lightly at the reminder, the sensation running up my arms.

“And the dogs that were chasing after you?”

All colour drains from my face, and I stare open mouthed at him.

He huffs, “You think me arrogant, and yet you were ready to die. If it weren’t for me you’d have been dragged through the forest by them.”

“For you?” Truly, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Though the mystery of the dogs and their men entered my head briefly, I made the assumption they were unable to cross the wall into Fae. 

He huffs again, “I chased them away that night. While you… slept.”

Part of me wants to give him another verbal lashing for assuming that my collapse into exhausted sleep was the equivalent of a nap but-

“But why?”

He freezes for a beat, stumbling over his words. “Why what?

“Why bother? You could have saved yourself all this trouble,” _Not have to worry about a human’s fits of emotion over a mirror._

I can hear his teeth grinding as he says “What I do does not concern you, human.” But the words don’t bite. He looks away, face flushed and steps away from me. An evasion, no doubt. He cannot lie, but that doesn’t mean he has to tell the truth.

So with each step backward he takes, I move with him, chasing him slowly until stand in the centre of the room, both daring not to move and finding ourselves at an impasse. I could leave, he wouldn’t stop me now. I could find my way back into the human lands and yet-

And yet I don’t want to.

Standing across from each other, we are still for a beat. A moment where, briefly, we are equals. A disgraced High Fae and human chased away from her own home. I want to demand the truth from him, the same way he pulled it from me. I want to know why this broken Fae male didn’t simply kill me on sight but instead gave me a room and food.

So I ask again. “Why.”

I just hope, as I look at him while he finds the words, he understands that I want to restore whatever connection was growing between us. Fraught, yet so tangible.

He starts, voice strained, “Because-“ he breaths deeply, “because I didn’t want your death resting on my shoulders, like everyone else’s.” And though the words are cruel, I can see it now, as clearly as I can see him. The weight he carries on his shoulders, the broken court left to dust and grass.

I reach a hand out, covering the mere foot of space between us to rest on his chest. Under my fingers, through the thick material of his doublet, I can feel his heart pounding, quick and strong. I curl my fingers just slightly, pressing into the cloth and skin. Like the rhythmic wind, the beat of his heart sooths something deep within me and I can feel, almost like a thread between us, the very tangible connection to this stranger.

Hardly a stranger to me, though; this infamous, feared High Lord of Spring.

Under my fingers, his body goes completely still, that stillness only the Fae can achieve. But he doesn’t stop my hand as it moves up, slowly, so slowly. I trace the dip where his neck meets his chest, nails scraping gently. I bring my eyes up from his chest to see his eyes are closed, head bowed in silent reverence. My hand traces the path up his neck, resting finally on his cheek, cupping his face in my hand.

His eyes open, and I can’t look away from the forest green set ablaze.

How long has it been since someone touched him like this?

“I would understand if you wanted to leave.” He says it so suddenly, the words mumbled as though torn from his lips.

I should. I should be going but again-

“I don’t want to,” I whisper. The words hang between us, heavy and ladened with what has been left unsaid.

Frowning, he echoes my words, “Why?”

I hardly think before I reply, “Because I don’t think you like what you see, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr!](https://highladyofprythian.tumblr.com/)
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	6. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! super excited for this chapter. unfortunately for you i'm back at uni full time again so i may not be able to keep up with regular weekly posting, since i like to write chapters ahead of time. but i'll be doing my best to keep on top of it! enjoy!!

We stand there for an age, gazing into each other’s eyes, my hand resting on his cheek. Slowly, he turns his face into my palm, nestling in the cradle of my hand, breathing deeply.

And with that deep inhalation, he rips himself away from my embrace, nostrils flaring and chest rising rapidly with each staggered breath he takes. His eyes are wild, darting around my form: my face, my body, my hand which is still raised awkwardly in the air.

“It would be prudent-“ he says breathlessly, “if you were to stay another night.”

The words are not what I was expecting. From the force of his reaction, I was readying myself to be thrown out of the manor, wearing only the servant’s liveries.

He continues, noting my confusion. “In case your wounds,” he gestures with his whole arm, “reopen. And you are unable to find help.”

Disappointment blooms in my chest and I drop my hand. I thought perhaps this handsome Fae had seen me as more than a fragile human but-

“Of course. I shall depart come morning, then.” My voice is steady, betraying nothing. He is still a High Fae, a horrible magical creature intended to ensnare me with his attractiveness and _gods_ how could I be so foolish again. Of course he wouldn’t want to bed me, I shouldn’t even want to bed _him._ It’s all part of the glamour, the ruse.

Tamlin fixates on a spot just above my eyes when he says, “You will join me for dinner.”

“Oh?”

He fidgets, looking down from that spot to my lips then back up. “If you wish.”

My stomach grumbles in response, the promise of another hot meal too enticing to pass up. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.” I nod my head at him, and the manners expected of a middle-class woman are so deeply ingrained in me that I cannot help the small curtsey that follows.

His lips quirk up, laughing at me no doubt. “You may drop the formalities, human. I promise to not enchant, nor ensnare you here in anyway if you simply treat me as you would anyone else.”

My mouth opens, words pouring out before I can stop them, “If that is the case then I must request you to stop calling me _human._ ”

“Then how shall I address you?”

 _Stupid,_ I think to myself _._ Once again, I’ve fallen unknowingly into Fae trickery. I can’t give him my true name, for he could use it to do exactly as he said he wouldn’t. But then… he promised he wouldn’t trick me, and he cannot go back on his own word lest he uncover lies he cannot tell. My mind spins, calculating the value of just telling him my name since I’ve been in this court for nearly a full two days. I think back to every interaction, each carefully placed word in his sentences. He promised he would _not_ enchant me, not that he already _has_ therefore, telling him my name would in no way bargain my life away any further. Though-

He swiftly interrupts me, halting my thoughts from driving me slowly mad. “Your name bares no weight with my magic. So, please. What is your name?”

It is the softly uttered _please_ that has me replying before I can think myself any deeper into my spiral. “Viasna.”

“ _Vi-as-na”_ He pronounces each syllable so delicately, so tenderly that I’m left frozen for a moment, shocked at how much I enjoyed hearing my name said with such care. How his deep, rumbling voice wraps around each letter very nearly makes me shiver in delight but I restrain myself. Only a week ago I was entertaining myself with a boy from the village, hearing my name said aloud should not have such an affect on me. “Well then, Viasna, I will escort you back to your room so you may prepare for dinner.”

So together, my shoulder to his chest, we make the trek back to the rooms I stayed in last night, the events of the mirror feeling distant and hazy in my mind, as though they occurred months ago not mere hours. The walk back is in comfortable silence and with the manor lit in soft daylight, I can glean the full ruin of the manor. As we walk, Tamlin often has to slow to allow me to climb over pieces of furniture or wade my way through a sea of vines that creep along the walls and floors. Nature truly has reclaimed this former home and I’m reminded of another version of the story of the Spring Court; wherein following the events of the war, the Court was so corrupt the earth decided to swallow the court whole. Perhaps this is the tall tale closest to the truth.

We walk the familiar corridor leading back to the room, the destroyed painting of the fox still barely hanging onto the wall. Tamlin walks in with me, magicking the fallen canopy off the bed, replacing the sheets and leaving me fresh clothing and undergarments to change into. All with a singular, dismissive wave of his hand.

I stare agape at him, in awe of the casual use of magic. 

“How…?”

His chest puffs ever so slightly with his answer. “I _am_ a High Lord.”

Fae arrogance is another notorious element of the tales.

But then… why is the rest of the manor in such disarray? I very nearly ask him, but the look on his face stops me. He seems so vulnerable after the display, and perhaps magic is more intimate amongst the Fae than I realized; at least the magic freely given without the entrapment of a bargain.

So I look to his feet, bowing my head in recognition of his status over me as I mutter a quiet, “Thank you,”

Fingers grip my chin lightly, lifting my face to meet his gaze. This close, his eyes shine in the light, flecks of gold littered amongst the green. These are no mortal’s eyes. His voice is soft when he says “You need not be meek with me, I’ve no reason to hurt you.”

“The magic, sir-“

“Tamlin,” he interjects.

“The magic, Tamlin, is not something we humans take lightly. To be freely given as you just did-“

He interrupts me again, “It is under my complete control. I choose what I do with it. And I chose for you to,” his voice hardens, “not sleep in a haphazard bedroll on the floor.” He says it with such finality, there is no room for me to argue.

His fingers are trembling lightly as they grip my chin, the warmth of them spreading from my face to my chest and when he pulls them away, I keep my chin high, almost beckoning him closer. But he nods towards the bed, the clothing, then me, and leaves in a flurry of green silk.

I run my hand across the fresh bed sheets, nearly weeping at the feel of soft, clean linen. After a night on the forest floor, then another in musty old furs, the linen feels heavenly on my still tender skin. It calms my racing heart in a way that even the bath didn’t manage, to feel something as utterly human and grounding as bedsheets.

But even my in my moment of calm, curiosity still burns through me. So I don’t linger at the bed, nor do I change immediately, instead I make my way to the perfectly intact dark mahogany desk that stood out this morning. Gold leaf trims the sides creating a mosaic of leaves and vines; the desk stands out as odd to me, such a contrast to the manor’s white and cream. Small draw compartments run along the top of the desk, though when I open them to look inside I find they are completely empty, even the shelving below the desk is bare. Only dried ink pots and quills left sitting idly, no papers hastily signed, no letters written. And yet, the desk itself remains polished and scratch free.

Too afraid to be alone with my thoughts even for a moment, I search every drawer and cupboard in the room, even those barely recognizable as furniture. But each is empty, collecting dust. The closet I spotted last night is bereft, only a burnished orange tunic, leather riding pants and knee-high boots left behind. Nothing indicative of who resided here. Briefly I consider searching through the vanity in the bathroom, but my arms shake in protest when I face the doorway. The burning magic still in the forefront of my mind. But I push it down, down; refusing to face the possibility that I could be _other._

Anything other than a human gifted with healing powers.

So I search. I search through the room, collecting the torn papers on the floor and gathering them into a pile on the desk to read later. The papers are enough to make up several books, and under piles of furs I find empty leather bindings, pages clearly torn straight from them.

I pick up a page, sitting on the edge of the bed determined to start reading, piecing together what I can to unlock the mystery of the Spring court. I manage to read one line before I feel a _pull_ in my chest. Like a warmth in my lower stomach almost… throbbing with intensity. I drop the page in surprise, jumping to my feet, only managing to have read the first sentence,

_Tamlin remains inconsolable, tensions in the Court are rising higher…_

And that _pull_ happens again, beckoning me closer to the door. Swiftly I change into the clothes Tamlin left, grateful for the soft leather pants and cream tunic; if this errant pull is a gut feeling, then I may stand a chance of running if enemies are attacking the manor. I can barely yank the tunic over my head with the shaking of my arms. I’m terrified that this is another horrible manifestation of whatever lies dormant inside of me, like a spark ready to ignite and set the whole manor ablaze.

But I follow whatever tugs me forward, through the door and down the complex series of hallways. Down a winding spiral staircase and into a part of the manor I’m yet explore.

The vines along the walls grow thicker the closer to the base of the staircase I get, the banister falling away completely, portions of the stairs collapsed to the floor below. Canvas strips line the stairs, frames torn from the walls and wood fragments line the expansive marble foyer that lies ahead.

And when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I very nearly gasp at what I see. Here, the tales of the Spring Court come to life, in all its terrible glory. The floor- the very centre of the foyer is just… missing. A slab of marble gone. Like the marble had been sucked into a void, leaving only the dirt beneath the manor. No salt here to stop the earth from growing, no. Vines reclaim the space, spilling from the floor and webbing around the bottom floor of the manor.

Something terrible happened here.

I continue forwards, glancing briefly at the large double doors clearly denoting the actual entrance into the house, and through another set of doors leading to, what was once an elaborate, spacious dining room. Tamlin sits at the head of the table, looking too small for a space reclaimed by his own lands.

“You came,” he says.

“Yes,” I move to sit at the table to his left, the only space aside from his free of cracks and wood splinters, “Though I don’t quite understand how I managed to navigate my way here.” I reply, distracted by the room. I’m not surprised to see it in utter ruins much like the rest of the manor, yet the energy here is somehow… off. Like a blanket of oppressive night pervades the very air I breathe, stifling and thick. Even Tamlin’s shoulders seem more hunched than usual.

He shifts in his seat, avoiding my gaze as he answers. “I sent out a… surge of magic. To collect you.” I relax down into the cushioned seat with relief, as though a weight has been lifted from me. Walking here, I near convinced myself I was about to be turned into a living candle, a walking bonfire destroying manor homes in her wake; my own anxieties manifested in a horrible kind of magic.

If Tamlin notices my relief, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he looks at the table sheepishly, pink burning the tips of his pointed ears, “I am not much of a cook… though I tried to make the food appetizing for a human.” And with a wave of his hand, two plates of food are summoned and laid in front of us.

A heaping portion of potatoes and meat are the only things on the plate, yet again. But they do appear to have some seasoning on them this time. For the sake of his obviously volatile temper, I keep my thoughts to myself. But my stomach protests another night of undercooked meat and potatoes and I can’t keep my expression from slipping; my lip curls up ever so slightly, eyes thinning as I poke around the meat with my fork.

“Is something wrong?” Tamlin asks between mouthfuls, frowning at my untouched food.

I answer carefully. “No s- Tamlin. It’s just I don’t think I can eat undercooked potatoes,” I poke a potato with my fork for good measure and can’t even puncture through the skin, “again. Nor undercooked meat, I could get sick.” 

He pauses, swallowing his mouthful before looking disdainfully at my plate. “Yes, right,” he clears his throat, “It has been a while since I’ve had to make considerations for humans. Let me show you to the kitchen.”

And with that, he picks up both our plates and walks through a small servant’s door. I trail after him, still fascinated by the manor, all its twists and turns, seemingly endless corridors. We walk through a small hallway just wide enough for his shoulders before stepping out into a large kitchen. Or, much like the rest of the manor, what was once a kitchen. A great stovetop encompasses the entire backwall, windows providing floor to ceiling natural light, pots hang overhead, cobwebs interlaced between them. In the centre of the room rests an island, dust covered filled with old dirty pots and pans. Like a mirage I can nearly see the Lower Faerie servants rushing around the great kitchen, preparing meals and pastries to be enjoyed by Spring Court nobility. But I blink and the figures are gone again.

“There should be a clean pan somewhere…” Tamlin trails off, placing the plates on the island and rummaging through cupboards. I take the moment with his back turned to admire the fine cut of his clothing. The outline of his shoulders, so powerful and broad. How the skin there would feel underneath my hands, clutching his shoulders, scraping my nails across his skin while he-

He stands suddenly, hitting his head on an overhanging pot and cursing lightly. The pan he holds nearly clatters to the floor but he manages to catch it. My lips curve up at the sight, a High Lord bested by a cooking pan. When a giggle escapes my traitorous lips, he finally tips to me, his scowl only making me laugh harder.

“Fine. Cook it yourself then.”

The laughter on my lips dies as he passes the pan to me, our hands meeting briefly in the middle. He pulls away as though burned, and I turn from him, hiding my hurt from his keen eyes; but I could have sworn there was genuine heat between us, prevalent even with a touch as light as that. I push my fingers into that spot, still feeling a lingering warmth. Though I thought we had moved passed the disdain he holds for humans, it appears not. Is it disgust he still feels for me or the dormant magic that makes my skin burn?

I make a show of trying to light the large burner, if only to avoid looking at him, speaking to him, otherwise sharing the same space as him. Waring thoughts make my head hurt, on the one hand this is a notorious Fae male’s house and I should be leaving as quickly as I came, on the other, I keep thinking about the skin he hides under conservative clothing. Is he as sun-tanned as his hands or pale?

“What were you thinking about? Before?” I jump, thinking he left the kitchen.

 _You_ , I want to say. _You’re shoulders, your body, are all Fae that fit or…_ my thoughts run off again. I shake my head to clear it. “That there are an awful lot of dirty pots and pans,” Not exactly a lie, hopefully one truthful enough that he cannot smell it on me.

“Is that all?”

 _No,_ “Yes, why?”

I do turn to him now, assessing his face for myself. He’s flushed, the tips of his ears stained red and he struggles to meet my gaze, eyes dropping to my stomach and back. He fidgets with the fork he holds, twirling it between long fingers. “No reason,”

Evasive, again.

I hum quietly, dropping the issue for now and turning back to the stove, pushing around the meat with my fork. I point to his food behind me, no doubt getting cold as he isn’t eating. “I could heat that up for you with mine if you like.”

He drops the fork, the clatter onto the stone floor echoing in the silence that surrounds us. I whirl around, finding him panting lightly, eyes frantic.

“N-no, it’s fine.”

I frown, “It’s no trouble, I could cook it further too, though I don’t know how Fae bodies react to raw meat, if its anything like a human’s I can’t imagine it would be…” I trail off, perturbed by Tamlin furiously shaking his head.

“It’s fine, Viasna.” The finality in his tone makes me frown, I want to question him more. Pick at him until he just tells me the truth. There’s something, _something_ he’s not telling me and I can feel it… tugging at me just so. Like a clue that I’m so close to reaching but so out of my grasp. But I don’t, because he’s shrunken in on himself again, bringing his arms up to wrap lightly around his middle like trying to keep himself together.

So I don’t say anything, I simply serve up my now-cooked meat and sit opposite him at the island.

Near breathless he says, “We could go back to the dining room,” though I can see on his face that he feels the terrible energy there too.

“I’m ok here. It’s quite cozy.”

His shoulders slump in relief and we eat in tense, but compatible silence. The more I learn about the court, the more I’m coming to realize that the stories that managed to spread across to the human realm were obscured by truth and lies, revealing just enough to ward away humans, yet not enough for me to have any clarity on what I’m looking at right now; a High Lord eating dinner with a human in the kitchens of his dilapidated manor. It doesn’t make any sense.

When we finish, he places both plates on a table and moves to walk away. “Shouldn’t you clean those?” It seems without the fear of him devouring me alive, I have no leash for my words.

He halts in his tracks, pausing a moment before pivoting back to the plates. He looks at them rather pensively, thinking hard, clearly. “That is… assuming you know how to wash a dish?”

He huffs, “I’m over 500 years old, of course I know how to wash a dish,” His actions say otherwise though, for he continues to just stare at the dishes. His shoulders slump, “It’s just you get very used to having someone do them for you.”

Though his melancholy pervades the air around us, he waves his hand and the dishes begin washing themselves, if a bit rough in their motions. A scrub brush jostles the plate as it hovers above the washing basin, roughly cleaning the plate which then floats into an awaiting cupboard; dust ridden and lined with cracked glass, but it’s a start.

We stand in the empty kitchen, either side of the centre island listening to the rhythmic scrubbing of the brush in a rare moment of peace. His arms are still loosely wrapped around his middle, but his eyes are no longer haunted, glazed over with memories of the past.

He breaths deeply before turning to me, resting his elbows on the island. “Viasna I want to ask you…” he hesitates.

“Ask me?” I prompt.

“About your magic,” his gaze is piercing, rooting me to the floor and I can’t look away. But even though I’m frozen in place, that fire within me licks at my heels, spreading up towards my calves, my thighs.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to. You’re _human,_ Viasna, no human has that much power stored within them,” his voice is gentle, clearly afraid of startling me. But he’s completely unaware that the fire he speaks of is making its way slowly up my legs and to my core, over my heart now.

I’m burning with the shame of it. Of being questioned by this immortal with power that rivals only the seven other High Lords. That he would find my meek, pitiful spurts of flame something of interest. The High Lord who can vanish objects as easily as he can summon them, who’s very magic powers the weather of his court, locking it in eternal Spring.

So rather than give myself the release I crave so badly, I spit my words back at him. “And like I told you, _High Lord,_ it is nothing. Nor was it anything with the mirror. And it continues to be nothing now.” The flames in my blood reach my neck, burning up, up into my eyes. But it doesn’t hurt, rather it’s the warmth of a roaring fire on a winter’s night, the kind of fire that grounds you, fuels you.

“If you’re using me to atone for the sins of abandoning Feyre and murdering your own people I suggest you leave me out such blasphemy.”

Tamlin stumbles back as though scalded, mouthing my name soundlessly.

But he doesn’t stop me when I flee the kitchens, back into the dining room and into my rooms.

Nor does he chase after me when the sun goes down and the manor is shrouded in the thick darkness of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr!](https://highladyofprythian.tumblr.com/)


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